The Viewing

by Sam Sparks

flats over a tattooist’s shop and saw a red glow from a window. It was the same in adjacent premises as well.

  I looked at the list of names by the buzzer and pressed number four as the addressed indicated.

  A female’s voice replied after the short buzzer sound:

  ‘Wat wil je?’ came the brusque enquiry through the intercom. Which I took for “what do you want” type question.

  ‘I am looking for Michaela.’

  ‘You are English?’

  Quite what that had to do with anything I couldn’t surmise. I confirmed that I was one of Her Majesty’s subjects and was asked to move out from the doorway so I could be seen. As I did so and looked up, I saw the silhouette of a woman (presumably Michaela) in the window above looking down at me. A passersby gave me the once over as well. First time for everything. Here I was, waiting outside what was I assumed a knocking shop, for a woman who thought I was going to be her next customer.

  I heard footsteps coming down stairs on what sounded like bare boards. The door leaked light into the side alley as it opened. An old man, somewhere in his seventies brushed past me, then another behind him, who was even closer to geriatrica. Then came Michaela.

  At this point I was way out of my comfort zone. Michaela had shoulder length auburn hair with delicate features. She looked her age, if I’m putting it kindly. But what really got my attention was that she looked like she’d just been roughed up. I’m sure my face must have betrayed some element of shock.

  ‘Five minutes please. Wait in the room on the right.’

  I was quick to correct her impression of the purpose of my visit. Too quickly dispel any misunderstanding I blurted out:

  ‘Your father, is my grandfather.’

  ‘What?’

  I repeated myself, taking part of Grandad’s letter out of my jacket pocket adding: ‘Do you read English?’

  Unsurprisingly she looked skeptical, before reading the note.

  Then she threw her arms around me.

  We spent the next hour acquainting ourselves. She seemed happy and even grateful that I had made the journey. Obviously I had news to impart. This was the stuff of films, unlikely ones at that. Thoughts about the financial side of things were now uppermost in my mind. If I was in a spot, what was she in? Should I do the right thing, in a more generous way than my original best intent? I really needed the money, but she clearly needed it more.

  I told her the story and waited for the reaction. And, boy, did I wait. Perhaps this was too much to take in. That was understandable. My emotions were somewhat strung out as well. She wanted to know if I would like a cup of coffee. I responded positively and she disappeared.

  I looked around the flat. It was clean and tidy. That was the first thing that struck me. There were some objects of erotica I’d noticed on the way in. In the far corner were artist’s materials and an easel propped up. But the most interesting thing to catch my eye, was on the windowsill. It was a photograph of a young woman and a British army soldier. Michaela came into the room and found me holding it. I’d seen wartime photos of Grandad before and now here, in this foreign land, was another. ‘That was the only photograph I have of my father.’

  No surprise there.

  She placed the coffee cup on the dresser as she made her way over. Her face was different; more at ease. This was in stark contrast to the previous few minutes. She went on to tell me her story.

  After her mother died, her stepfather made life difficult for her.

  ‘He was a cold man, I don’t know what my mother saw in him, security I suppose.’ Without warning, he had kicked her out of the house with her few belongings. With no family left, Michaela had headed for central Amsterdam with five hundred guilders to her name. She rented an apartment, bought some artists’ materials and produced some canvases. She tried to sell to galleries without much in the way of success, took a few odd jobs to make ends meet, but it was never enough to live on. The landlord pressing her for unpaid rent was how her life then took a wrong turn. She spent too long one night in a Brown Café. In conversation with a man called Zig, she blurted out her life story and accommodation dilemma. For the next two months she lived with Zig in a squat, her appearance became disheveled.

  After six months she was not much more than a husk. Worse still she’d taken to sleeping rough.

  Zig lost contact with her for a week and found her in a stupefied state begging in a side street off Damm Square.

  He introduced her to a bohemian friend called Remy, a man in his thirties with plenty of cash in his pocket. By this time Michaela had given up ever sleeping under a roof ever again. A flat was found, a new wardrobe bought and she very soon realised there was a condition to these purchases; life as a prostitute.

  ‘And that’s my sad story.’

  I was wondering why Anna hadn’t mentioned anything other than a hard life. She must have known. It then dawned on Michaela to ask how I had found her. I explained about my experience in the Pharmacy, she nodded as if to say there was no surprise in my treatment there.

  She asked after the lady shop assistant was called Anna. They’d lost touch for some reason, odd in such a small city. As she spoke of their time together, I could see the sadness in her eyes, and I have to say, I was moved.

  Without giving the financial news anymore thought, I announced the news of the impending windfall.

  ‘You are going to give me this money, just like that?’

  ‘It was meant for your mother and you.’

  ‘I can’t believe it, how much is it?’

  In my keenness to bring some good news in to her miserable life I hadn’t, as they say, done the exact math on the split.

  Silently cursing myself for such an unforced error I did come up with a plausible response.

  ‘I’m awaiting a valuation. It’ll be quite a few thousand.’

  Really, that much?'

  'Yeah. Well yeah.' I mumbled.

  Her face lit up.

  ‘I could, well I could change my life. Can I ask would it be single figures or double? I was now feeling awkward; I was trying to balance my situation and feeling bad about doing so and wanting to be the messenger of good news. Just not too good. 'We'll it'll be in the tens.'

  'That's it then, I can say goodbye to this life! Thank you Thank you, I can hardly believe it.'

  The intercom buzzer sounded.

  ‘You must go now.’

  I got up to leave, she stopped me.

  ‘No wait.’

  I'm not going to work, at the least, for tonight, maybe this week, maybe never again. Oh God thank you!’

  She went to the intercom:

  'Niet vanavond' and then some other words I didn't understand, but it was clear, she had shut up shop for the night. Whoever was downstairs was going to be disappointed.

  She asked me what memories I had of Grandad and of course her half brother, my father. Now that was a strange thought, I told her I’d been lucky to have a kind and loving Dad who (along with my mother) was taken far too young in life.

  It was getting late, I was tired and wanted to get my head down. We agreed to meet the next evening at a restaurant near my hotel.

  In the morning with time on my hands and although a little premature, I rang Nigel. The mobile went to voicemail. I left it a couple of hours, tried again, same result.

  I rang Koenig’s.

  It was then that my life really fell apart for the second time.

  The conversation went along the lines of:

  ‘I‘d like to speak to Nigel please.’

  ‘So would we.’

  He’d disappeared.

  I explained about my diamonds.

  Did I have a receipt? I was asked.

  I confirmed I did and related the number.

  My heart sank when I heard the words ‘Not one of ours.’

  ‘But it’s on your letter head with your logo!’

  Our receipt doesn’t have our logo embossed on it Sir.’

  ‘Can I speak to the a
ppraiser Tilo?’

  ‘Sorry no appraisers here by that name.’

  The voice on the other end suggested I contact the Police. Koenig’s were waiting for them to arrive as they had their own problems with Nigel.

  Distress does not begin to explain what I felt.

  I fell into a quick and severe depression, even re-visiting a fleeting period of my youth and sought oblivion in a Brown Café. I missed the meeting with Michaela as I’d only regained consciousness on the side of a canal the next morning. My first thought was of Michaela how she must have cut a lonely figure waiting for me and wondering why I hadn’t shown.

  Alternate waves of self-revulsion and anger hit me. I had to get back to London. Worse, I would have to tell Michaela the bad news.

  I had no idea quite what I was going to say. I even briefly thought (to my shame) of just disappearing. I made for her address and saw her coming out of her flat from about two hundred yards away. When I was in earshot she called out at me: ‘You did not meet me. Why?’

  I led her in silence to a table at a nearby coffee shop and related the bad news. I expected anger at worst or, at least a significant emotional reaction. I got neither. But she seemed fine, too fine in fact. Like she wasn’t really with me. Or had she been devastated, like a final kick in the teeth?

  That thought made me feel even worse. Anger would have been more logical, then I twigged, she wasn’t really there as she’d taken drugs.

  If I ever found him, I wanted to inflict some lasting damage on Nigel. The question was why had he betrayed me?

  I wanted to be off. No words that I was going to come up with would be convincing so I just told her I would be back. I hoped, but didn’t think I would return. As I finished, she